


A Tale of Inconceivable High-Falutin’ Higgledy-Piggledy Doom

by china_shop



Series: Vehicle Deck series [1]
Category: Canadian Actor RPF, Fandom RPF, Hard Core Logo (1996), due South
Genre: Aliens Make Them Do It, Crack, F/M, Fic, Llamas, M/M, Mary Sue, Meta
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-07-06
Updated: 2006-07-06
Packaged: 2017-10-13 04:06:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/132659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/china_shop/pseuds/china_shop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Okay," says Sage, summing up the situation. "We're being held hostage by alien eugenicist hijackers who want us to provide them with future sons-in-law fathered by Ray Kowalski."</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Tale of Inconceivable High-Falutin’ Higgledy-Piggledy Doom

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sageness](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sageness/gifts).



> With immeasurable thanks to mergatrude and sageness for encouraging me on, and beta. ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ Title provided by vaudevilles.

We're lying beside the pool with Dief, sipping daiquiris and recovering from [out_of_con_txt](http://community.livejournal.com/out_of_con_txt/), when we hear shouts from the bridge. I turn my head lazily. "Should we investigate?"

"Mmm," you mumble. "Maybe later. I'm sleepy."

I nod, and let my eyes drift shut. It's warm and comfortable, and I can feel the sunlight soaking into my skin in a pleasant melty sort of way.

 _KKKKKKKKKKKKK!_ The brutal clatter of machine gunfire rings out across the deck. Someone screams.

I leap to my feet, meltiness forgotten. "WTF was that?"

You sit bolt upright. "I don't know." You snatch off your sunglasses and look furious. "Whoever it is, don't they know this is _our_ cruiseliner?! How _dare_ they disrupt our R &R?"

There are more screams. My stomach curls up anxiously. "We should take cover." I grab your arm and haul you into the shelter of the metal stairway that leads up to the C Deck.

"Dief!" you call, trying to get him to follow, but he's asleep. Apparently his hearing's gotten even worse over the years, and even the machine gunfire hasn't woken him. You scan the vicinity, the deck above, and run back out to the pool. You shake Dief awake, and grab his muzzle so he looks at you. "Gunfire!" you say. "Come on!"

Dief shakes himself and pelts after you, back to the shelter of the stairway. When you're two feet out, the machine gunfire starts again, deafening this time, and a row of jagged holes bloom in the deck behind you. Splinters of wood spray up in my face—one catches my lip and draws blood—and I reach out and drag you under cover. Dief runs into us, slamming us both against the wall, and we stand there, cowering and wondering what the hell's going on, and what to do next.

I can't help stating the obvious. "We must've been hijacked!"

"Or there's been a mutiny." You squash back, and edge along the white-painted wall toward the door of the TV lounge. "We have to find Fraser! He'll know what to do."

"He doesn't even carry a gun," I point out, but I follow you as stealthily as I can.

We've nearly gained the door when the PA shrieks to life. "This is the captain speaking." He sounds hoarse and nervous. "Would all female passengers proceed to the ballroom please. This is an emergency." There's a faint garbled muttering in the background, and the captain chokes. "We are under attack. Please remain calm. All female passengers must proceed to the ballroom."

We look at each other, wide-eyed. You still look furious. I'm just terrified. "This had better not lead to non-con!" I say.

"So long as the llama's aboard we're safe from that, at least," you say.

"Yeah." I try to take a deep breath, but my lungs aren't working properly. "Where is the damned llama, anyway?"

You bite your lip. "I have no idea."

The PA howls and shrieks again, and then a new, harsh voice takes over. "Giving me that, earthling! 'Allo! Female creatures must all come to the dancing place. Constable Fraser, do not you attempting a rescue! There is a bum planting deep within the bowels of the ship."

"A bum?" you repeat, frowning in confusion.

"Bomb!" I say. "They've planted a bomb! And I think they're aliens."

"No kidding." You lean your head back against the wall, and your anger seems to dissolve into fear. "You know what that means?"

"No way!" I fold my arms to keep from shaking or throwing up. "No fucking aliens are making _me_ do it."

   


* * *

   
There are only a couple of dozen women in the ballroom when we get there, and most of them are old and grey-haired. "This is weird," you say. "Shouldn't there be more women?"

"It's a slash cruiseliner," I point out. "Though God only knows what happened to Frannie." I'm finding it impossible to uncross my arms—it's like they're welded to my torso. I can feel all the muscles in my back seizing up. My massage therapist is not going to approve.

"Hey, isn't that—?" You point to the far doorway, where a small woman in a kirtle is pushing through the swing doors.

"SAGE!" I shout, and manage to pry one of my arms free and wave frantically.

She looks across at us, and tilts her head queryingly, then smiles and comes over. "I was asleep, and some guy woke me up and told me I had to come here. What's going on?"

"The cruiseliner's been hijacked by aliens," you say bluntly.

"It's going to be fine," I say, trying to sound reassuring.

"Aliens?" Sage still seems half-asleep. I take her over to the table along the starboard wall, where someone's thoughtfully set out tea, coffee and juice.

"Have coffee," I tell her. "Then it will all make sense."

"No, it won't," you say.

"True, but—" I'm interrupted when the swing doors open, and tall strangely-familiar monsters come in, carrying machine guns. They have tangled seaweed hanging from their heads, and they're dressed in rags.

"You know what they look like?" Sage murmurs, stirring sugar into her coffee.

"The pirates in MotB," you and I chorus.

"Yeah," she agrees.

"Wow," I say. "It's so good to finally meet you."

"Shame about the circumstances," you say.

"Weren't there supposed to be daiquiris?" Sage asks. "And lounging by the pool?"

"You slept through that part," I say, sadly.

"Darn it." Sage pouts. "Stupid timezones."

The tallest of the 'ghost pirates' makes a loud rattling noise, and everyone quiets down and listens, and I have to fold my arms again because I feel sick. "We holding the ship hostage," he declares in a screechingly unearthly nasal drone.

"What did he say?" asks one of the grey-haired old ladies.

"I don't know," another tells her loudly. "I couldn't hear him either. Everyone mumbles so these days! Can't you speak up?" she asks the seaweed-draped figure.

There's a general chatter of agreement from the other elderly ladies.

"You'd be clearer if you weren't wearing that ridiculous seaweed on your head," Sage advises.

"Silence!" yells the tall ominous figure, but he pulls off his headdress, to reveal a squidlike alien visage so hideous that I take an involuntary step back. "You will do as we telling you, or you will all dying! We will exploding the ship!"

Sage frowns. "That's not very nice."

"Shhhhh," you hiss.

I have a bad feeling about all this and don't say anything.

The alien starts to pace back and forth in front of us, and the old ladies twitter amongst themselves, giving a running commentary on his appearance, and repeating his words to each other loudly and clearly, since many of them are apparently hearing-impaired.

"Your transmissions have been receiving by us," says the figure ungrammatically. "We knowing this Due South, and Stanley Kowalski. We knowing of it everything. We have watching and we have learning." He pauses and holds up his arms. "Stanley Kowalski is the pinnacle of your evolutionary human. We have knowing about The Stella, and that Stanley Kowalski was wanting of offspring and yet she was thwarting of him."

"Oh shit!" you whisper. I nod, fatalistically.

"Our daughters are home on our own earth, with their parentmales to look after them."

I blink, and silently castigate myself for assuming the aliens' sex.

"You must making with Stanley Kowalski the small humans of lean perfect for the affection-winning of our daughters once they themselves are enough old to mate," the alien continues.

I pinch the bridge of my nose. "What did she say?" Her syntax is giving me a headache.

"She wants us to have Ray Kowalski's babies," Sage explains in an undertone.

"Oh." I'm filled with a deep and gut-wrenching ambivalence. I look at you, and you seem equally torn.

"Oh," you echo. "Wh-what about Fraser?"

That snaps me back to reality. No matter how much I might want—well, I don't want anyone's _babies_ —but even if I _did_ it would be non-con, because Ray loves Fraser. "We can't go through with this," I whisper.

Sage looks at me like _DUH!_ "Of course not," she says.

"Well, we'll have to do _something_ ," you say. "I don't want to die."

"Silence!" screams the head alien again, clattering her clattery bits angrily. "No discussing! You will do as we insisting or you will die!"

I look around the room again. "Someone should explain to her about menopause."

   


* * *

   
"Uh, excuse me." Sage politely but firmly interrupts the proceedings, and takes the head alien—whose name turns out to be something like Quardle Oodle Ardle Wardle Doodle—aside to explain about biology, in particular the female reproductive life-cycle including menopause, and certain basic restrictions on male physiology and their ability to perform under pressure.

Meanwhile, confusion continues amongst the more elderly passengers about what's going on, and you and I are trying not to panic. "It's okay, it's okay, it's okay," I chant. "There's still the llama."

"This story's first person, though, right?" you ask nervously. "So the llama only really protects you. What happens behind closed doors—"

"Shit." You're right. "We have to talk to Fraser."

You shake your head. "We should talk to Callum and Hugh."

I stare at you, confused. "Why?"

You shrug, looking slightly uncomfortable. "Fraser and Ray are OTP. Callum and Hugh are—"

"They're OTP, too!" I hiss indignantly.

"Except for how Hugh's married."

I scowl. "Fraser and Ray are _fictional_."

"Not here." You sit on the floor and I follow suit.

"Well, Hugh isn't married here."

You sigh. "I just think—you know, if Fraser and Ray get traumatized and break up, that's bad for all of us. That's the end of the road, you know? But if Callum and Hugh break up, well, that's just reality. I mean, as far as we know for sure, they were never really together."

"What about Noel whatsisface's book," I argue, weakly.

"Hearsay and circumstantial evidence," you say. "And no one likes Noel."

"You haven't even read it."

"Neither have you." You pat my shoulder. "I'm not saying it's a _good_ answer. We should still try to avoid it. Of course we should. But I just think, when it comes down to it, that Hugh and Callum wouldn't really care that much—"

"And Ray and Fraser would. You're right. I know, you're right." I sigh. "You realize that to pull that off, we not only have to get Callum to act as Ray—and do it convincingly after all this time—but also make sure Ray doesn't find out about it? Ray wouldn't let someone else offer himself up on a sacrificial altar for him—especially not someone he feels competitive about."

You twist your finger in the hem of your t-shirt. "We'll have to see what happens."

   


* * *

   
What happens is that Quardle Oodle Ardle Wardle Doodle lets all the old ladies go back to their cabins to lie down, and locks the rest of us (eight in total, a fact which makes QOAWD look a little disheartened) into the ballroom for a few hours while she goes off to make arrangements and freshen up.

Sage and you and I hold a strategy meeting. "Okay," says Sage, summing up the situation. "We're being held hostage by alien eugenicist hijackers who want us to provide them with future sons-in-law fathered by Ray Kowalski." She stops, and stares at her hands for a minute. "We're in a reality where Ray Kowalski is real. Right?" She looks at us.

We nod.

"You get used to it," I tell her. "Listen, mergatrude and I were thinking it might be best if we can somehow get Callum to stand in for Ray."

Sage raises her eyebrows. "Best for whom?"

"For Fraser and Ray," you say firmly. "For all of us, when it comes down to it. They're made for each other!"

Sage catches on quick. "Yeah, okay. It's still fundamentally wrong, but I suppose it's marginally less traumatic for all concerned."

I shrug. "Rock, hardplace. It's a pity Craig Zwiller isn't aboard: this would be right up his alley."

"Also? Hot!" you say.

I nod vigorous agreement but try to steer the conversation back on track. "So a) how are we going to tell Callum about this, and b) how are we going to overthrow the aliens and take back our ship?"

"Thus rendering point a) redundant," you chip in.

I nod impatiently. "Yes, depending on timing." I'm still vastly ambivalent about the whole thing, and I feel guilty for feeling ambivalent, because it's wrong, but on the other hand, it's _Callum_ (or Ray). The guilt makes me a little cranky.

You give me a wounded look. "I'm just saying."

"I know. Sorry." I sigh. Now I feel guilty about being cranky, too. Vicious cycle, blah blah.

Sage is watching us perplexedly.

I wave all that aside and get back to the point. "How do we get word out?" I look around the room for inspiration, and my gaze lights upon a nondescript door in the far wall. "What's that?"

You glance at it and shrug. "Coat closet?"

Sage looks over at it, her gaze sharpening. "Closet?"

"But none of the guys are _in_ the closet here," I say. "They're all open and schmoopy. That's one of the things we like about—"

"I'm not thinking about _them_ ," she interrupts, and casually leads the way over to the cream-colored door. She tries the handle but it's locked, so she leans on the door and knocks surreptitiously.

The doorhandle turns and we all bundle into the coat closet—which turns out to be a log cabin with a roaring fire and an RCMP emblem on the wall. Ah. "Oh!" says Bob in surprise, removing his weird fur hat and cracking his neck just like Fraser. "Ah, ladies. What can I do for you?"

Sage smiles sweetly at him. "Sergeant Robert Fraser," she says, shaking his hand. "Pleased to meet you. And I'm, uh, we're glad you asked."

   


* * *

   
Meanwhile, Fraser has—by fair means or ~~foul~~ perhaps because the captain is an old friend of his father's—found out that aliens have planted a bomb onboard. He, Ray and Diefenbaker are searching the ship for traces of explosive. Dief's nose leads them to the stairway down to the restricted vehicle deck.

"Oh dear," says Fraser. "Ray?"

"We can't both go, Fraser. I heard it's like a jungle down there. What if we get lost? Someone's got to stay here and stop the aliens from whatever it is they're trying to do."

Fraser stops rummaging through his belt pouch and takes Ray's hand. He gazes intensely at Ray, and says, "I'll go. Just—Ray, if anything happens, don't forget me."

"Never!" vows Ray, and pulls him into a tight hug, burying his face in the side of Fraser's neck. After a lingering moment, he releases him. "Now get going. If you can stop this bomb, we're all off the hook."

Fraser pulls an improbably big ball of string from his belt pouch, gives the loose end to Ray, and then turns the ball between his fingers, letting out some slack.

Ray loops the string around his finger. "What's this for?"

"It pays to take precautions, Ray," says Fraser gravely.

Ray narrows his eyes. "There something wrong with your compass?"

"I believe the vehicle deck is liberally scattered with magnets, Ray. The string will suffice."

Ray's eyes go big. "Magnets?! Jeez, _why?_ "

"That's not important." Fraser cups Ray's cheek. "What is important is that I love you." He kisses Ray, and then disappears down the stairway that leads to the dingy lower deck.

Ray grips the string and watches him go. "Man, I hate waiting," he mutters.

   


* * *

   
"See," I tell you. "It's not all in first person."

You look at me like I'm crazy.

"Never mind," I sigh. Narrating is a lonely job, fraught with danger and duty.

"What's she rabbiting on about?" Bob demands.

"I don't know," Sage says. "It's not important. What's important is whether Callum can see you."

"That funny-haired actor fellow? Yes, indeed, young lady. He's been in here before."

"Really?" you say.

I elbow you. "Remember the [Callum/Smithbauer snippet](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/Cruiseliner/works/130769)?"

You narrow your eyes, trying to recall it, then nod.

Sage explains the situation to Bob.

"You mean the aliens want to engineer me having grandchildren of a sort and you're trying to _stop_ them?" Bob looks cantankerous for a moment.

"Would you rather there were more Americans or more Canadians in the world?" Sage counters quickly.

I blink in admiration. That argument would never have occurred to me.

Bob tilts his head. "I suppose you're right," he tells Sage grudgingly. "Plenty of Yanks already. But I don't see why you think this actor fellow will go along with it."

"He will," I say confidently. "Narrative causality."

Miraculously, Bob seems to accept that. "I'll see what I can do." He salutes, and walks through the wall into the ballroom.

A second later he comes back. He clears his throat and adjusts his Stetson. "Yes, I'll just—" He points at the opposite wall, and then walks through it and disappears.

"We should get back," you say.

"Can't we just stay here?" I ask. "Bob's got the whole thing under control. We should keep his fire going and, uh, miss all the potential oogie non-con."

"We can't thwart their plans if we're hiding in the closet," Sage points out.

"Oookay." I run my hands through my hair, adjust my bra straps, and reluctantly follow you and Sage back into the ballroom.

   


* * *

   
We have little opportunity to overthrow our captors. An unusually subdued Turnbull brings us a bland dinner of over-cooked vegetables laced with extra folic acid.

Then QOAWD makes another appearance. "Any resisting," she says, brandishing a small cube with a shiny red button on it, "will instantly blowing this ship sky high."

Sage puts up her hand but doesn't wait for permission to speak. "You'd be killing yourselves, too."

"Silence! We are astral projectings of our matterbodies. Our physical presence here is incidental to our ongoing life functioning."

"Fuck!" says Sage, loud and clear. "I bet you're bluffing. What if you're too far from home, and the astral projections kind of break off? What then?"

"You are wanting to risking erroneous?!" snaps QOAWD, waving the destructo cube.

Sage visibly restrains herself, but she still looks suspicious.

An alien marches in carrying a folded note of paper, and QOAWD and the others cluster around, grimly discussing its contents.

I look at you, concerned. "Sage swore. They've done something to the llama."

"No." You shake your head. "We've always been able to swear. It's PG-13, not G."

"But only Hugh and Callum swear _gratuitously_ ," I protest.

Sage gestures at the aliens with machine guns and bomb triggers, and says, "You call this gratuitous?"

"Uh, point taken." I eye their weird knobbly heads, squinty eyes, and itchy trigger fingers. "Fuck."

"What are the chances of Bob persuading Callum to stand in for Ray?" you murmur.

"About 17.4 percent," I say. "What are the chances of Fraser finding and disarming the bomb before anyone has to go to bed with anyone?"

Sage tilts her head as she calculates. "81.6 percent—Uh, what are the chances the llama's working?" Her voice is strangely hollow.

I follow her gaze to a secluded corner of the ballroom, where two other female passengers who bear an uncanny resemblance to Molly Parker and Rachel McAdams are distracted with making out. Er. Rather _more_ than making out—"Would you rate that as R or NC-17?" I murmur, trying and failing to look away.

You clap your hand over my eyes. "You shouldn't be seeing that. You're the narrator! If you're exposed to stuff like that it means—"

"—the llama's out of commission," finishes Sage.

"Only if I describe it," I argue. There's a brief moment's silence, and then I hear the disproportionately loud sound of a zipper rasping open, the wet sounds of kissing and licking, throaty moans. "Okay, the llama's either broken or it's not working." I pry your hand from my eyes to see Molly Parker flicking her tongue back and forth over Rachel McAdams' exposed nipple. Rachel McAdams groans and arches up. Molly Parker chuckles. She sits back and licks lower, and one of her hands slips inside Rachel McAdams' jeans—

"Shit!" I hastily pull your hand back across my face. Then I say into the darkness of your fingers, "Hey, it's not all bad news."

"How's that?" you ask, your voice wobbling.

"Well, it seems like I've internalized the llama." I pat your hand, which is protecting my visual virtue.

You burst into tears. "What about Albuquerque?!" you sob.

"I'm sure she'll be all right," Sage tells you firmly.

"Yeah," I say, even though, actually, I'm not 100 percent convinced.

   


* * *

   
Meanwhile, Bob has explained the situation to Callum and Hugh.

"So let's get this thing straight," says Callum. "You want me to give in to the demands of blackmailing aliens and father a bunch of babies by unwilling female passengers, but Fraser's going to save the day before it comes to that, but if it does happen, it's supposed to be this other guy, but I'd have to step up to bat anyway?"

"Yes, son." Bob is staring fixedly out the window at the horizon, pretending to himself that he can neither see nor hear any of the conversation, not even the parts he himself is saying.

Callum raises his eyebrows, and then shrugs one shoulder. "Yeah, okay."

Hugh pushes off the wall and lights a cigarette. He looks jealous, though whether it's of the women getting to sleep with Callum or vice versa isn't entirely clear.

"You'll do it?" Bob asks, startled into making eye contact.

Callum grins. "Sure. A guy's gotta do what a guy's gotta do, right? I can save the day, get the girls, and uh, besides, I can make even bad sex good."

"For who?" mutters Hugh around a mouthful of smoke, and Callum gives him the finger.

"So, what do I have to do?" asks Callum.

Hugh regards him through narrowed eyes, and then turns to Bob. "And can I watch?"

   


* * *

   
Meanwhile, Fraser moves cautiously through the half-dark. The vehicle deck is apparently some kind of dreamspace or borderland—so far he's seen his grandfather, his cousin Michael, and several reproachful-looking green Buick Rivieras. At least his father is blessedly absent. The floor whispers ominous secrets, but when Fraser stops and listens carefully, the secrets aren't interesting after all: who cheated on their taxes and how overdue certain people's library books are.

A sneering, dark-haired, brown-jacketed man leans against a pillar, smoking and muttering insults under his breath, but he doesn't say anything outright, so Fraser ignores him.

Fraser feeds out the string behind him and continues on, unerringly moving toward the center point in his projected subconscious where he knows the bomb is planted. It's the last place he wants to go.

A rhythmic knocking noise in the gloomy shadows to his left catches his attention, and he turns to see Ray's GTO gleaming in the dark. It appears to be alive or—no, two men are moving against it.

At first Fraser thinks they're vandalizing it, trying to overturn the vehicle. He takes a hasty step forward, determined to protect Ray's pride and joy, but then hesitates. The men's attention is focused on each other rather than the GTO. They're—yes. Fraser tugs at his collar uncomfortably. They're having sex.

One of the men—the heavier set one—sports a thick Mohawk, while the other is blond and—Fraser blinks rapidly and presses the palm of his hand against his eye, trying to reconcile what he's seeing with what he knows. The other looks exactly like Ray, whipcord thin and fierce in his manner. Fraser wants to tear him from the larger man's arms, to _rescue_ him. He resists.

The man with the Mohawk raises his head and meets Fraser's gaze boldly. He seems unsurprised, unfazed to have been caught so, with Ray or Callum or whoever it is before him, who has one arm slung carelessly across the roof of the car and is moving and grunting, absorbed in their activities.

The larger man's gaze is full of challenge and territorial posturing. Fraser breaks eye-contact quickly and steps back again into the shadows. He doesn't have time to interrupt them and explain himself, and they surely won't have noticed the calamitous events of recent hours.

That's what he tells himself, anyway.

His fingers tighten on the ball of string, that thin line that connects him with his Ray. He moves deeper into the belly of the ship.

   


* * *

   
"—call each of you by name," QOAWD finishes explaining, "and you will come at once and coupling with Stanley Kowalski. No arguments or interventions by the Mountie Fraser, or we will exploding the ship."

The threat of being summarily blown to pieces proves an effect deterrent to our heroics, so instead of leading a mutiny as planned, we sit quietly. I twist my hands anxiously in my lap (and you do likewise) and we try to distract ourselves by discussing fandom and life and meta stuff. I avoid mentioning the llama, but every so often you wipe your eyes.

One by one, the other female passengers are called. Pale and shaking, they each leave the ballroom under armed guard, and then return fifteen or twenty minutes later, red-faced and slightly sweaty. On return, they all seem calm and relaxed. Some of them are smiling or laughing. I catch a whiff of a faint strange perfume.

Then QOAWD calls Sage.

Sage bites her lip and looks like she wants to argue, but the destructo cube is brandished, along with the machine guns, and she goes.

"I guess we're finding out one thing I never needed to know for real," I mutter.

"What's that?" you ask, blowing your nose.

"Callum's refractory period."

You look thoughtful. "Oh yeah. I guess they just expect him to knock us off, bam bam bam!"

"Or knock us _up_ ," I say queasily. "Plus I'm guessing the armed guard actually comes in to make sure we do it."

"Oh god." This seems to distract you from your llama grieving. "I have performance anxiety."

"You care what the aliens think of your, uh, you?" I'm confused.

You shake your head, and blush.

"Oh." I pat your shoulder. "Callum. Well, look at it this way: it might be Ray." (That probably doesn't help much.) "Either way, from his perspective, the whole thing's probably all a big blur. Plus, it's got to be worse for him, with the trying to get it up over and over."

"Except he doesn't give a rat's arse what we think of him," you say.

"True." I don't know how to respond to that, so I change the subject. "I wonder what that sweet smell is. Do you think they drug us before they make us do it?"

You frown. "Wouldn't that compromise the health of our unborn children?"

I hadn't thought of that. "Maybe that depends on the drugs?"

   


* * *

   
Fraser moves past rows of snowmobiles, trucks and tractors from his youth, and official RCMP vehicles from his time at the Depot. Other cadets swarm in the shadows, polishing their Sam Brownes and learning investigative techniques. Fraser's sure none of them could find the bomb even if it were strapped to their Stetsons.

The ball of string in his hand has been getting smaller and smaller, gradually shrinking from the size of a grapefruit to an orange to a lemon, then a lime. Now it's nearly gone.

Five paces, ten, and then he's standing on the edge of pure darkness, literally at the end of his tether. Icy air blasts against his cheeks, making his eyes water. However hard he listens, he can't hear anything, no indication that this is the right direction, that this is where the danger point lies.

The only way to go is forward.

Fraser rolls the end of the string between his fingers for a moment, hoping against hope that Ray will feel the vibration and understand. Then he drops it, and steps out blindly.

He considers using the flashlight in his pocket to guide him, but decides it would be unwise, here, to call attention to himself. Immediately upon making that decision, he smacks into something large and metallic, bruising his knee. It's another car. He runs his hands over its surfaces—it's low to the ground and smells of rust. When he pushes down on the roof, it doesn't have any give: Fraser deduces the car is without wheels. He bends down and sniffs the upholstery through an open window, and the scent is teasingly familiar. He's been in this car before. He's been _bound_ in this car.

It takes him a few seconds to place it, and then he remembers Charles Carver trying to put him and Ray Vecchio into the car crusher. This is that car. The car from the junkyard.

Fraser backs away, rubbing involuntarily at his wrists. He looks around quickly—if only Ray Vecchio were here now—but the darkness is still and treacherous. He licks his lip.

Behind him an engine growls to life. Headlights switch on, dazzling. Fraser swings around as the vehicle starts toward him. He dives sideways, but it swerves. This is it. He's found her.

The door flies open and he jumps in, and then they're hurtling through the back alleys of Chicago. Her face is pale, her eyes dark with ice and betrayal. "Ben."

Prepared though he is, he has nothing to say to her. "Yes."

"You died." Victoria shoots him a calculating, broken look. "I saw you go down."

Fraser shrugs. Perhaps he is dead. Who is he to say? "I'm here. Where are we going?"

From nowhere, she pulls a gun. "Don't question me." Her hand shakes, and she veers clumsily to the kerb and turns to him. "What are you going to do, Ben? What are you going to do to me this time?" She grabs him and presses her mouth to his. Her kiss is poison.

He pulls back and stares her down. "You shot my wolf," he says, ignoring the tug of recognition that still calls to him, even now. "You jeopardized my friend's livelihood and his reputation."

"I did it for you." The gun trembles. "I can't stand to—"

Feeling neither fear nor regret, he reaches out and takes the cold barrel of the gun in his hand, and twists it sharply from her grasp. She bites her lip with her perfect white teeth, and lets him.

"Next time you do something for me," he tells her, "ask first."

   


* * *

   
Sage comes back into the ballroom, flushed and grinning, and is herded into the, uh, box marked 'Done'.

You're next. You grit your teeth and stick your chin out, but you go. Now I'm all alone (with the three other women who're left), and I pass the time as best I can by singing _Once More With Feeling_ under my breath. I get as far as Tara's reprise (having skipped quite a few songs because I'm freaking out and I keep forgetting where I'm up to), and then you're brought back.

You give me a secret thumbs up but I have no idea what that means. What? He's a good lay? What? I return a blank look, and you're taken over to Sage and the others, so I can't ask you.

In the (tense-adjusted) words of [Christine Lavin](http://www.christinelavin.com/00081506ballgame.html), _the ranks of the unchosen are depleted and the ranks of the chosen swell, and I'm still standing there..._ And then QOAWD calls my name.

I pretend not to hear.

QOAWD calls my name again, and then an alien with a machine gun comes over.

"Look, I'm sorry," I say. "I have a really sensitive non-con squick."

"It's Stanley Kowalski," snaps QOAWD. "How dare you turn down a chance for sex when there are teenagers in Europe who can't get a date."

"You're quoting [Jeffrey](http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0113464/)! The least you can do is to come up with your own dialogue," I say indignantly, but actually it's a semi-persuasive argument. I struggle reluctantly to my feet, and precede the armed guard out through the ballroom door, along the plush corridor, and into a TV lounge that's been, uh, rearranged: there's a large bed in one corner, covered in rumpled satin sheets (I can't help wrinkling my nose at the sight of them, obviously used) and framed by a clumsy makeshift tent; there are two exercise treadmills side by side; there is a small table with two chairs, and on the table is a teapot that smells pleasantly aromatic, and two china teacups; and there is—I honestly can't tell if it's Callum or Ray. He's wearing his Bulls t-shirt and soft faded jeans and trainers. His hair is classic Eclipse. He looks tired and sweaty and, well, yes.

 

I sneak a look at the front of his jeans but there's no sign he's turned on. Just my luck he has to run out of steam when it's my turn!

Uh. That is. I experience an ambivalent reaction to that. Er. Moving on.

The alien guard takes up a position in the corner and grunts, "Get on with it."

Callum/Ray comes over to me. "Are you okay?"

He sounds like Ray. I really don't know what to think.

He tilts his head and narrows his eyes at me, waiting.

"Uh, I dunno," I say stupidly. "It's—" Freaky. Scary. Uh, hot (but I can't say that). "Are you—?"

"Shhh." The instruction ghosts over his lips, and he winks at me. "Yeah." It's Callum, I'm 85 percent sure. It's ridiculous to be shocked by how much he's like Ray—I mean, I know he _was_ Ray, but it's still startling. This whole cruise I've had no trouble at all telling them apart, and now, suddenly it's like they're the same person again.

That person, whoever he is, puts his arms around me in the least sexual hug I've ever had from _anyone_. "Just follow my lead, okay?" he murmurs in my ear.

I barely hear him. His breath on my ear makes me quiver. He smells _great_. His _arms_ are around me, and I try to remember that there's an alien with a machine gun in the corner, and that Callum/Ray's done this with more than half a dozen other people in the last two and a half hours, and that it doesn't mean _anything_ , but god. He smells _great_. It's like that bit in Strange Bedfellows where the restaurant disappears and there's just Ray and Stella dancing. Except that, uh, I don't think it's like that for him.

"You're all right," he says soothingly. "Oh yeah, you're all right."

I nod.

He steps half a pace back, and puts his hand on my arm. "Come on."

My heart thuds so hard I think I'm going to faint or throw up, but he doesn't lead me to the bed like I'm expecting. He leads me to the treadmills.

   


* * *

   
Hugh strides along the deck, scowling and smoking. The stars twinkle mockingly at him as though everything is okay, when clearly it fucking isn't: Callum is being held hostage—is pretending to be the Mountie's boyfriend, and doing Christ knows what. He might've gone into it voluntarily, but he sure as shit isn't getting out of it now if he has second thoughts. And Hugh isn't doing a goddamned thing to rescue him because if he does, the whole ship could explode. At least, that's what the old Mountie guy said.

Hugh suddenly wonders why they believed the old Mountie guy. Maybe he was in on it all along.

Hugh turns on his heel and paces back the way he came, muttering _fuckfuckfuck_ under his breath. He's going to _do_ something. He's got to do _something_.

He passes the top of some metal stairs and notices something glinting on the deck. He picks it up and rolls it between his fingers. Callum's bracelet. Fuck!

He looks around. "Callum? Where the—?" There's no one around.

Hugh takes a step closer to the stairs, and there's no one down there, either. There's a sign on the wall that says "Vehicle Deck: Authorized Personnel Only" and a downward arrow. There's a string pulled taut, leading down the stairs. It's tied to the hand-railing.

Hugh grabs the string and tugs it, wondering if Callum's gone below deck. For some reason that seems dangerous. Hugh tugs again.

The string jerks in his fingers—an answering tug. "Callum?" Hugh shouts down the stairwell, not caring anymore about the aliens or any of that shit. He just wants this whole creepy fucking trip to be over. LA has never sounded so good.

His shout echoes back at him. The string twitches again and when Hugh holds his breath, he hears footsteps getting closer.

Hugh stubs out his cigarette on the metal wall beside him, and starts pulling the string in like he's reeling in a giant fish. It takes forever.

Just when he's losing interest, when he's decided the whole thing's a stupid practical joke, a figure swims into view in the shadows at the bottom of the stairs. "Ray?"

"Fuck no," says Hugh.

The original Mountie (not the old one) climbs the stairs, neatly winding the string back up into a ball nearly the size of a grapefruit. Hugh drops the handful he's clutching and watches in silence as the Mountie follows the string back to its starting point. The knot.

"Oh dear," says the Mountie. "Where's Ray?"

Hugh shrugs. "I found this." He shows Fraser (yeah, okay, he knows the fucking Mountie's name) Callum's bracelet. "Didja see Callum down there?"

Fraser pockets the bracelet, and gets a funny look on his face. "I, ah, no. I don't think so."

"What do you mean you don't think so? You did or you didn't!"

Fraser sighs, and straightens the gun tucked into his holster. "I'm afraid where this cruiseliner is concerned, it isn't that simple."

   


* * *

   
I look at the treadmill in horror. (More horror than I've experienced so far in the last five hours.)

"Ten minutes," grunts the alien in the corner with the machine gun. "No skimping."

"What?" I say, louder that I should, but then Callum/Ray catches my eye and I shut my mouth and nod, and say, "Oh, yeah. Of course. Duh!" I slap my forehead.

"Fuck," Callum/Ray groans, "I really just want—"

I feel my face get hot, and lower my eyes modestly.

"—a smoke. I'd kill for a cigarette."

"Running!" insists the alien, and points her gun at me.

So we get onto our twin treadmills and—we run. We run really fast. Faster than I _can_ run, but Callum/Ray shoots me encouraging looks, and I stagger on, stumbling and grabbing the handrails for support when I can barely stay upright.

"Wrong shoes!" I gasp after the third minute.

"Gah! Ack! Dying!" I manage after minute number six. My chest _hurts_. My legs are killing me. And I think I'm about to vomit a lung.

After that, all I can do is emit grunts and emphysemic rattles, which seems grossly unfair because I don't smoke and Callum/Ray, who does, is running along easily beside me, humming Chariots of Fire to himself while sweat patches spread on his t-shirt. Bastard. For that, I like him a little less. But despite my physical distress, I can still tell that he smells great.

When the timer on the treadmill reads 09:48, just as I'm thinking, "Oh my God, I might actually survive this!" the door of the room bursts open, and you and Sage charge in.

The guard alien aims her machine gun at you, but you yell, "We're inseminated! Don't shoot!" so she hesitates.

Fraser follows you through the door, dragging QOAWD and holding a pistol to her head. "Release this woman and—Ray?"

Callum/Ray squints, a little confused, and looks from Fraser to Hugh, who's standing behind him in the doorway. He doesn't seem entirely sure where his allegiance lies.

"Quit it with the method acting shit, Callum," Hugh growls.

"Ray?" says Fraser again.

"I, uh, yeah?" says Callum/Ray. "I think I'm both."

Woah. This worries me—but not as much as the fact that QOAWD is still waving the destructo cube. "What about the bomb?" I shout, and then kick myself, because if the aliens have forgotten about it, it's bloody stupid of me to remind them, isn't it?

But Sage waves her hands vaguely and says, "Fraser disarmed it!"

"Awesome!" I say, and shoot him a thankful look. "How'd you find it?"

"It turned out to be all sort of weird and metaphorical," you murmur, grabbing the guard alien's machine gun (thank god!). "I think he prefers not to talk about it."

"Never mind then," I say to Fraser apologetically.

"The bomb is not existing," says QOAWD, trying to free herself from Fraser's unyielding grasp. "I making it up. The Sage woman was right: we being too far out. We are a long way from home—maybe too far for real power—so I making up a story to buying some leverage to making you mate."

"It's not important," Fraser tells us. "What's important is that we need to send these aliens back from whence they came."

"Yeah," says Hugh, throwing his shoulders back and raising his fists, "once I've kicked some alien ass for fucking with my boyfriend."

The guard alien cowers shamefully.

"Your boyfriend?" QOAWD and Callum/Ray chorus, apparently equally confused.

Fraser maneuvers himself between Hugh and QOAWD. "Don't hurt them! They're _alienus gerundingitia_ —an endangered species!"

"Yeah!" the guard alien agrees.

"Fuck that!" says Hugh, but he steps back, shoves his hands in his pockets, and pulls out a packet of cigarettes and a lighter. He offers Callum/Ray a smoke, and Callum/Ray takes one, looking at Hugh through his eyelashes in a familiar gesture. Fraser watches, halfway between disapproving and wistful.

"So how do we get rid of them?" I ask Fraser.

"According to the captain, there's a deportation station at our, ah, next port of call." Fraser darts distracted glances at Callum/Ray, who's savoring the nicotine and doesn't notice. "Until then, ah, I'll keep them under house arrest."

"Shiny," says Sage.

"I'm so glad we got here in time!" you say. "I know how much you hate non-con."

"Yeah," I say, a mite grouchily, and fold my arms across my chest. "Thanks."

   


* * *

   
We leave the aliens and the other passengers in the care of the crew and Fraser and Callum/Ray (who has convenient handcuffs in his back pocket, to Hugh's amusement), and the three of us go back to your cabin and take turns showering. It would be quicker to shower in our own respective cabins, but we're all still shaky and freaked out, and none of us are ready to be alone just yet.

Sage and I borrow changes of clothing from you, and when we're all clean we sit around your cabin, brushing our hair or fiddling with our clothing, according to temperament and hair length. You clear your throat, scratch your head and clear your throat again. "You didn't even get to the bark tea," you say.

"Bark tea?" I repeat, blinking.

"In the teapot," says Sage. "The aliens had seen all of Due South, but they only understood about a third of it."

"So, okay," I say. "Bark tea. Okay. But what the hell was with the treadmills?"

"mergatrude and I were talking about that before. We think they might have something to do with Diefenbaker."

"Dief?!" I'm gobsmacked. "Uh? They weren't going to make me—?" I can't even bring myself to ask.

"There are puppies in The Wild Bunch," you clarify.

"So you're saying that because Dief ran around with his ladyfriend, that's how the aliens think she got knocked up?" I can't keep the incredulity from my voice.

Sage shrugs. "I think they were hedging their bets. It makes as much sense as anything else. There was 'sheltering' on the bed, too—"

"A la the conversation with Bob in Hunting Season," you chime in.

"—but, thank god, Due South is a family show, so we think they just didn't _know_ about sex, so that wasn't part of the programme."

You go a little pink in the face and look at your tightly clasped hands. I decide not to say anything.

"So what about Dief, then?" I ask Sage, to give you some recovery time. "Where was he?"

"The aliens had him locked up in the laundry for a while, but he managed to escape. He helped Fraser subdue them. That bit was all touch and go, what with the machine guns and everything. Dief was great!" Sage pales at the memory. "He nearly got shot, but—"

"But you tripped up QOAWD's right-hand alien just in time," you tell Sage, raising your head. "You were great!"

Sage grins. "So were you! With the tureen of soup! Best use of a ladle I've ever seen!"

I try not to feel left out that all the excitement went down without me. Actually, it's not that hard, but I do feel compelled to butt into your mutual admiration society. "So, uh, did you guys—Was that Callum or Ray in there?"

"Callum," you say positively.

"Ray," says Sage, at exactly the same time.

There's a pregnant pause.

I frown. "Oh dear!"

There's another moment's silence.

"Hey, we could've been blown to smithereens!" Sage says. "At least we're all in one piece!"

"Except Albuquerque," you say.

"And it seems like Callum and Ray are in one piece, too," I say slowly. "Instead of in one piece each."

Silence falls again as we digest that.

"You know what?" I say.

Sage twists her hair around her finger. "What?"

"I'm really—starving." I get up. "Do you think the restaurant's still open?"

"It's the cruiseliner," you tell me. "The restaurant's always open."

"Except when it's narratively inconvenient," I agree. "Come on! I can hear pancakes calling my name."

As we walk along the deck toward the main stairway up to the restaurant, you and I hang back a bit. "I know what you're going to say," you mutter.

I look at you quizzically. "You do?"

You stick your chin out recalcitrantly. "You're going to say, 'You didn't have to have sex with him.'"

"Actually," I correct you, "I was going to ask what you did with the soup tureen, but now that you mention it—" I lower my voice so Sage can't hear. "You didn't get knocked up, did you?"

You blush and shake your head. "Condom," you say, so quietly I have to lip-read it.

I choke. "The aliens let you use a _condom_?!"

"Shhhhhhhhhhhh!" you hiss, glancing anxiously at Sage. "If you tell anyone about this, I'm so going to defriend you."

I gesture at the empty deck around us. "Oh, right. Who would I tell?" I lower my voice again. "But the aliens were trying to get you knocked up! Why the hell did they let you use a condom?!"

You shrug. "They weren't exactly the brightest bulbs on the tree, in case you didn't notice." And you hurry me along to catch up to Sage. Because, yeah. Pancakes!

   


* * *

   
Callum/Ray, Hugh and Fraser are all standing on the C Deck under the twinkly stars. "You know," says Callum/Ray in a low husky voice that makes Fraser lick his lip helplessly, "I don't see why I have to choose."

Fraser's eyebrows fly up his forehead, and he starts, "Ray, I hardly think—"

"What the fuck—?" says Hugh, but Callum/Ray cuts him off with a soft sinuous kiss. At the same time, Callum/Ray's fingers travel across Fraser's cheek and find his lips, then slip inside, stroking his tongue. Fraser moans.

Callum/Ray turns his embrace with Hugh so they're backing Fraser up against the railing, their hot male bodies all pressed together, and for a moment Fraser curves his hand around Callum/Ray's neck, lets his knuckles brush Hugh's jaw. For a moment, Fraser leans in to smell their scent. For a moment, he has wild thoughts of letting loose, letting this happen. Having Ray any way he can.

But then something shifts in the air, like a change from minor to major key, and Fraser remembers who he is. More importantly, he remembers who Ray is, and Ray would never do this.

Fraser pushes Callum/Ray and Hugh gently aside (noticing, as he does so, that their kisses have inexplicably lessened in intensity), murmurs an apology, and leaves. As he walks away, he touches the bracelet in his pocket, Ray's bracelet. He resolves to keep the faith. He's seen many strange things in his life, none stranger than the happenings aboard this ship. It's not beyond the realms of possibility that Ray—his Ray—will come back, and that one day Fraser will be able to return the trinket to him. He can wait.

Dief runs up with news of a fresh batch of baking at the small all-night café on the B Deck, and Fraser follows him upstairs, in search of quiet contemplation and a cup of hot chocolate.

   


* * *

   
Meanwhile, a low resonant groan sounds through the dark shadows of the vehicle deck.

Joe lets Billy's cock slip from his mouth, and wipes his chin on the back of his hand. Billy's hands clench even tighter in Joe's hair for a minute, and then Billy stiffly unwinds them, and falls back sideways into the passenger seat of the GTO.

There's a muffled knocking coming from inside the car.

Joe, kneeling on the dirty oily ground, looks up at Billy and grins. "You had enough yet?"

Billy swallows, and takes a moment to find his voice. "You got more? I can take it!" He sounds hoarse and liquid. Joe doesn't believe him for a second.

"Guess we can let the fucker out of the trunk then." Joe clambers to his feet, and swaggers around to the back of the car. He has Billy's spunk in his hair, in his mouth, on his hands, up his ass. It's been a fucking marathon, and Christ, it was worth it, but that knocking is pissing him off. He has to let her out or shoot her, and he's not the murdering type. Not really.

"Hang on a minute!" Billy calls, and there's a pause while he shuffles his jeans back up his skinny legs and drags his ass out of the car. He comes over and plasters himself up against Joe's front, and kisses him long and deep and dirty, tasting of come and sweat and cigarettes.

Finally he pulls away with a sigh and rests his forehead against Joe's shoulder. "Okay," he says. "Okay, let her rip."

Joe opens the trunk and suppresses a wince at the sight. She's all twisted and uncomfortable looking: the trunk's really too small for a llama of her size. "Hey, no hard feelings, right?" he says, helping her out. "We just really needed to screw, you know?"

The llama regards him balefully for a minute, her right ear twitching, her legs slightly askew from having been bundled up for so long. Then she spits at him, catching him right in the face.

Joe grins and spits back, a friendly shower of saliva.

Albuquerque takes a skittish step back and grumbles at him. With a final twitch of her ear, she wheels around and disappears like a big shaggy ghost into the eternal gloom and mysterious depths of the vehicle deck. The air shimmers and lightens, like a change from minor to major key.


End file.
